


Canadian Roulette

by oldmilkdud



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (Yes I'm talking about you Hank Anderson), Angst, Canon Typical Violence, Emotional Constipation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Escapism, F/M, Family Dynamics, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, M/M, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-09 06:52:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15261828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldmilkdud/pseuds/oldmilkdud
Summary: One thing leads to another, and the boys up in Canada. Connor discovers himself, Hank is outed as a Ginuwine-loving ex Republican, and the subtle (sometimes not-so-subtle) angst never stops.





	1. The Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, guys! Welcome to my first attempt at fanfiction! :) I just wanted to thank you in advance for taking the time to read, and to also preface with the fact that there is so much more tomfoolery to come! Be on the lookout for Kara, Alice, and Luther shenanigans in the near future (and equal parts angst) as this slow, slooow burn unfolds.

Hank’s balls were sticking to his leg. The back of his head was sweating: not his neck. Not his scalp. The middle of his fuckin’ skull was dripping bullets as he stood there, clad in basketball shorts and a drenched T-shirt, glaring at Connor as if he murdered his own mother.  His backyard was clearly not made for this. He hadn’t touched it since Cole’s been gone—the synthetic grass grew only to a point, overwhelmingly hideous but not full-blown safari, but it was clear the Lieutenant neglected to pay it any damn mind. The weeds were there for a sense of realism. _EverGreen! Better than the real thing!_

Fuck if he even remembered what a weed whacker looked like.

They poked at the bottom of his bare feet. He groaned uncomfortably.

“Connor, goddammit, I’m too old for this shit!” The android answered with that ridiculous quirk of his brow, the one that feigned innocence, and dribbled the ball against the small line of pavement.

“You’re the one that suggested we play basketball, Lieutenant.” He answered dutifully. “And you’re outside the lines. Might I suggest a comfortable pair of shoes before we play a second round?” The android’s gaze flickered over Hank’s bare toes. He was suddenly insecure about the fact that he hadn’t gotten a pedicure in… ever.  He cleared his throat, arms outstretched to either side of him. “What, so you can fuckin’ deck me again, Connor? Please. I’m over it.” And with that, Lieutenant Anderson started his walk of shame to the sliding glass doors, taking one, two, and three steps before he made a sharp left turn, barreling at the cyborg who had only just resigned to the fate of the game—the orange morsel was held securely in his hands until Hank waltzed over and ever so kindly snatched it from him with a resounding _whack_.

Connor’s brows raised, his LED blinking a furious yellow as he registered the sight before him. Hank could see it now, the error message that must be popping up in his line of vision:

Lieutenant Hank Anderson. Age 53, Virgo, alcoholic, _lying bastard._

Hank swiveled around the android (or as close to swiveling as he could get, what with being two-hundred pounds worth of burgers and beer), catching the net with a jump and a triumphant fist pump. The basketball’s whoosh was music to his ears. Finally, after what felt like years of dealing with Connor, he had learned the key to outsmarting a machine--

Or, he remembered, Connor wasn’t a machine at all. He was just a guy who bled Thirium instead of blood. Wasn’t that what the revolution was all about, anyway?

Hank’s features twisted into a moue of distaste.

They hadn’t spoken about it since. Hank made an active effort to keep it that way. Witnessing Connor die was one thing—

Witnessing Connor try to kill himself in front of masses of his own people? Well. That was a whole ‘nother can of worms. One he certainly wasn’t keen on discussing quite yet. Hank, with his stupid savior complex, had gone to bed that night with an android in tow and a line of paparazzi buzzing at his door. He pulled his blinds and went the fuck to sleep. When he awoke, Connor was still there, sitting pristinely on his grease stained couch cushions as if not a damn thing happened the night before.

Both of their guns were kept next to the butter knives.

“—Very impressive, Lieutenant.”

Hank blinked. He put his smug bastard face on. “What, you didn’t think I could do it? Have some faith.” His hands moved to pinch the front of his shirt, ventilating himself unceremoniously. The android’s lips pulled into a fond half-smile.

“No, that you would be willing to stoop so low for a game of free throw. That’s troublesome behavior for a man of the law, don’t you think?” Connor stepped toward the ball, now trapped neatly within a patch of grass. He picked it up with those perfect body mechanics; lift with your legs, not your back or whatever the fuck. Hank’s lumbar lordosis proved that he answered to no one, not even his own chiropractor. He rolled his eyes. “What, and downloading The Ultimate LeBron Package isn’t considered cheating? I saw you with your little,” He gestured vaguely at his own temple, circling with his index finger, “Yellow thing, asshole. S’not like you decided to go amateur hour on me.”

Connor looked on, his expression carefully neutral. Hank suddenly found himself furious at the fact that the rat bastard didn’t even have the decency to _pretend_ to be winded. He was still in full detective wear, RK800 displayed proudly on his suit jacket, glowing blue band wrapped around his arm. His pants were pressed perfectly. Hank looked like he’d just jumped into a mosh pit full of grown men who just discovered what bacon grease was. The half-smile never left his features. His stupid, unnecessarily goofy features. “Got something to say, or we just gonna stand here and look at each other all night?”

Connor tucked the ball beneath his arm. He cocked his head to the side, all lashes and bemusement. His LED flickered briefly from yellow to blue. “Are we going to keep playing, Lieutenant, or are you going to pretend to quit again?”

He stifled a snort, his middle finger instinctively finding its home mid-air. “You download a smack talking protocol, too?” And, despite his muscles groaning at him, Hank rolled his shoulders back, standing tall. “Let’s go, asshole. I’ve got one more game left in me.”

And, before the cheeky tin can could get another word in, Hank huffed, “—And it’s Hank. You can call me Hank.”

* * *

 

The shower was a long one. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d made it there, what with his body collapsing in on itself before he could score another shot. Let it be known that Connor was not a good sport.

They’d sat there, side by side, on the scraggly fields of grass without a single word’s exchange. Hank wondered what he was thinking about. Like how the weather was that day or what the _fuck_ he was thinking putting that barrel beneath his jaw. The masses had seen it first: all tens of hundreds of androids standing in file before him. The simultaneous rise and fall of Jericho. Their ship was gone, Markus was gone, and all the weight of the world landed on Connor’s shoulders, then stained with the Thirium of his predecessor. A bullet in the head never stopped him from resurrecting, fuckin’ robo Jesus that he was, but with the dawn of his deviancy it seemed…

Final. Like there was no turning back. Like Hank couldn’t have the pleasure holding him again, lying limp and lifeless in his arms, his chest tightening with a pain that he hadn’t felt since he woke up that first morning without Cole. He felt his blood run cold.

It was only by chance he’d caught up to Connor.

It was only by chance North let him into the camp.

It was only _by chance_ that he acted quick enough to lunge himself at Connor before the bullet went halfway through his brain.

He was so tired of having his blood on his hands.

And as the water pelted him, drop by drop, Hank knew the stench would linger. Rusted iron with a hint of peony. A viscous liquid that he never quite knew what to wash with, industrial grade bleach or Axe body wash, the Swagger edition. He opted for the latter today; his skin didn’t know the difference.

Hank stepped out the shower.  He walked over to the sink, a thick veil of steam encircling the room, and spotted a sticky note he’d left for himself the night he brought Connor home:

 _Take care of him_.

He reached behind the bar of soap, fished around for his marker, and wrote himself one more:

 _And don’t fuck it up_.

Satisfied, he threw on a faded DPD shirt and sweat pants, ambling his way over to living room. Connor had managed to familiarize himself with the right corner of his sofa, Sumo spread wantonly over him like an over-sized lapdog. He looked almost content. He looked over to Hank and greeted him like the sun shined out his ass.

“Would you like some wa—”

“No.”

“A heating pa—”

“No.”

“Might I suggest a—”

“No.”

Connor stopped petting Sumo if not only to focus his energies on glaring at the man, gray locks leaving a puddle of water on the floor where he stood. The joke was on him, though. How menacing could a pair of soft brown eyes _really_ be? Hank was unfazed. “I didn’t finish my sentence.”

“Yeah, well, the answer’s no.” He announced, popping a squat right by Sumo’s tail. “You’re a guest here, Connor. Not a maid. That’s not what you fought for.” He flipped on the TV. The news droned. Hank thought better of it and turned the volume down—just enough background noise to fend off the elephant in the room. Sumo’s tail wagged so hard it was like taking a meat cleaver to Hank’s thigh.

“Sumo, _Sumo!_ ” He cajoled, bringing a hand to scratch at his rump. “Watch what you’re doing with that thing!” Connor, ever the spiteful one, looked over with a shit eating… line. Straight ass line on his face.  Very little expression. But Hank _saw_ where his hand was scratching, god damn it, and quickly realized that the android was weaponizing his own dog against him! Sumo’s sweet spot? Right below his chin. Connor took no time at all figuring _that_ one out.

“Ow!”

… _The Android revolution…_

_…Passing a bill… in gridlock._

“Fuck, _Sumo! Connor_! I know what you’re doing,”

There was that smile of his again. He at least had the decency to _try_ to hide it this time. He feigned like he was oblivious, going at the scratches like Sumo’s very life depended on it. Maybe it did.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

Hank grabbed Sumo’s tail by the fist. “Attacking me in my own house. Is this becoming a pattern?” Connor swapped from Sumo’s chin to behind his ears. This was what doggy heaven looked like, clearly. “Maybe. You’re not inebriated this time, as far as I know.”

“As far as you know.” Hank repeated, enunciating each syllable slowly.

“The game of basketball was a bit out of character.” Tch. “Is this beginning of a geriatric joke? That’s cold, even for you.”

“I much prefer physical sparring to the verbal kind. Rest assured, Hank, I would never attack your age.”

Oh, brother. As if the crick in his neck wasn’t a reminder enough that he looked like overcooked deli meat next to this forever 20-something. Forever 30-something _maybe_ if he was pushing it. He let his back melt into the cushion behind him, head rolling back as his eyes met the wonderfully curious case of the pizza-stain-on-the-ceiling.

… _Fleeing to Canada…_

_…The state of the country…_

_…Disarray…_

“So, uh.” He broke the silence clumsily, words tumbling out of his mouth like a bad case of verbal diarrhea. Hank Anderson was never one for eloquence, after all. He never did get to apologize for pointing a gun between Connor’s eyes. He’d get to it eventually. It was a good ice breaker.

“How you feeling?” He wet his chapped lips. Hank had been trying everything short of going to the Eden club to make sure Connor was good and well distracted. He would seriously consider it, maybe, if not for the sinking feeling in his stomach whenever he thought of Connor slipping into one of those private rooms with a blue haired Traci. There was something… unsettling about it. He always barked at Connor to stand down, to let him lead with just a gun and a bad attitude, to let him sweep the area his damn self so his partner wouldn’t lend himself to trouble. That was what partners did for each other. That was his job. But _this_? Sitting on the couch with a post-suicidal android after playing a game of b-ball? This was something entirely different, and Hank would sooner win the lotto than put words to what the fuck _this_ was.

He'd pulled him into a hug the moment they got through the door the other night.

He hadn’t done it again.

“I am ‘feeling’ fine, Lieutenant.” Feeling. Connor had never used that word before. It showed.

“Hank.”

Connor’s LED had stayed yellow. “—Hank.” Its soft, sunny glow spoke otherwise. Hank opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and then started all over again when he realized this shit was going absolutely, fuck-all-nowhere. He let a beat pass, eyes still glued to the ceiling-stain as he considered his next words. He was surprised when Connor spoke first.

“I didn’t fight for anything.” He stated, plain as day. The sky was blue, birds fly, and Connor didn’t fight for anything, apparently. Let it be known that it was in that precise moment that Hank’s neck almost snapped in two trying to twist to meet Connor’s gaze. “The fuck did you just say?”

“Up until the very end of the revolution, I had been pursuing Markus. My mission was to find and destroy Jericho.” Connor’s words filled the space between them like a dastardly fart. Hank’s expression mirrored just that. “When I failed, I became deviant. And it was only then that we successfully infiltrated the Cyberlife tower.”

Hank held up his hands, “Woah, woah, woah. _We_ didn’t do anything. _You_ infiltrated the Cyberlife tower. I was just some hostage that coulda ruined the whole thing for you—got dragged in by the hair by your lookalike, remember? This is not a _we_ situation it’s a _you_ situation.” Sumo between the two of them with a visible question mark on his face. Connor pat his anxieties away.

“Regardless, Hank, Markus was responsible for its success. I didn’—”

Enough was enough.

“You said you wanted to get into music, right?” He interrupted, rising to both his feet in a hurry. Sumo hopped down from the couch, conjoining himself to the detective’s ankles. “—I mean, yes? Why?” With the way he brought it up, one would have thought Connor talked about music one second ago as opposed to two, three week _s_ ago. If Connor could talk nonsense, so could Hank. “I’m going to educate you. Stay right here.”

As if he’d let Connor out of his sight for longer than the walk to his bedroom. Not after that shit he just pulled last week. 

 

* * *

 

When he returned, he bore with him an ancient relic: a Google home. Hank set that bad boy down and hooked it up, glancing over to see Connor’s eyes widen in bemusement. Hank mumbled something under his breath, something about how Connor looked at it like he was holding a fuckin’ baby or something, not like he was whipping out a record player or something that equally showed how goddamned old he was getting.

It was a touchy subject, alright?

“Hey Google, play ‘Fuck the System’ by System of a Down.”

_Playing: Fuck The System by System of a Down._

The news anchors’ voice was reduced to a mere squeak in comparison to Serj Tankian’s boisterous yells.

The soft yellow of Connor’s LED spun guilelessly. He listened on as if truly trying to analyze a deeper message. He rested his face in his hands, body leaning forward. He was taking mental notes. Was there a Metal Protocol?

“You see, Connor, the kinda music I listen to? There isn’t something wrong with _you—_ sometimes it’s the fucked up world you live in.” Hank professed, hands on either sides of his hips.

“So just give this playlist a listen, alright? And then you can try to tell me something about the revolution and success and—whatever the hell.”

It was approximately five songs, two EP’s, and one accidental Ginuwine song (his classic, Pony, of course) later that Hank had his wild idea.

Somewhere between justifying Ginuwine, explaining some lyrical genius, and watching the expressions on Connor’s face, he realized…

They needed to get the fuck out of there.

Away from Detroit. Away from the DPD. Away from anything and everything that would make Connor self-destruct,

Because goddammit, every time Hank thought of Daniel, the deviant who’d shot himself in the fucking head in the interrogation room, or Ralph, the one who jumped off the ledge, all he saw was Connor. Connor and the way that gun looked poised in those stupid hands of his—the very hands that should be fiddling with coins, not determining whether or not he was worthy of life or death. Those hands that should be beating the shit out of Gavin Reed for being an asshole (he was still proud of that).

Hank didn’t know the full story. Hank didn’t live inside a mechanical mind, with thoughts floating around in some thick, blue goop that he simply didn’t have the capacity to understand. What he did know, however, was what he saw with his very own eyes, and that was enough for him to yell over Lamb of God:

“I’m going to fucking Canada, and you’re coming with me.”


	2. The Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's their last night in Detroit. It may not go over well.
> 
> (trigger warning: homophobic language)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this chapter was not supposed to go this direction but HERE WE ARE. ACCIDENTS HAPPEN, AND THE CHARACTERS HAVE MINDS OF THEIR OWN. pls don't shoot the messenger. love me

Detroit was always for some reason or another, raining. Hank spent a majority of his late adulthood alone. He drank alone, he ate alone, and he slept alone. It was the curse of a cantankerous old fart who didn’t feel like diving into the world of fuckin’ Christian Mingle. His demographic? Widows who couldn’t do any better. The plot twist? Widows _always_ did better than Hank Anderson—and for that reason, he hadn’t expected what awaited him at Jimmy’s bar that night.

A clusterfuck, that’s what. 

It was a Tuesday. Tuesdays were two dollar draft beers and four dollar you-call-its. Prime time for getting wasted before 10pm with an android by his side. It was becoming their ‘thing’. Every Tuesday for the past four Tuesdays, Connor would accompany Hank to Jimmy’s, poising himself gracefully next to him atop a pleather (more plastic than leather, if he was being frank) stool. He didn’t say as much as he used to, just listened to Hank ramble on about shitty music for hours on end and occasionally spill an embarrassing story or two. Like the first week he had Sumo and the damn dog wouldn’t stop pissing on his leg. Or when he’d let him into the bedroom for the first time and he swore he red-rocketed all over his Ralph Lauren pillow cases. Those were the only luxury items Hank had ever invested in—he believed if he was gonna spend money on something, it ought to help him sleep better. Sometimes, Connor looked like he wanted to ask Hank a personal question. Most times, when Connor _was_ going to ask Hank a personal question, he ensured that he was too slammed to comprehend it. 

So maybe Hank deserved it that night. The fucking beaucoup of… _company_. 

Word had gotten out that they were transferring to Canada. In fact, word had gotten out that it was their last night in Detroit period, so there Hank was, standing before the entire DPD with nothing but the dumbest fucking look on his face to show for it.

“Ah, fuck me, _really_?”

“It’s about time you made it, Anderson. Connor told us you’d be here an hour ago.”

Cue the record scratching. Hank glared at Connor as if he’d sprouted an extra dick on his forehead—

Not that he knew that he even had an original dick to begin with. It was something he’d prefer not to plague his nightmares. Again.

“You motherfucker. You set me up.” He accused, all bark and no bite. Connor had insisted he wear his hippie print today. Damn android was obsessed with peace and zen and all that bullshit. Probably because he knew it’d be too ironic for Hank to swing at him looking all namaste’d out. And what did _he_ have on? The same RK800 outfit that he met him in at that very bar. They seriously needed to go shopping. Hank crossed his arms over his chest.

Connor threw him a wink, walking over to the single empty bar stool and pulling it out for him. Hank almost choked on his own spit.

“After you, Lieutenant Anderson.”

The wolf whistles were instantaneous. Gavin Reed clapped so hard his hands almost bled.

“—Princess Anderson.” The rat looking bastard corrected. He could barely contain his own laughter. The lieutenant hoped he would choke on his Shirley temple.  

“I apologize for being late,” Connor started as Hank unceremoniously hoisted himself atop the stool, eyes meeting the general vicinity of the crew. Fowler was the one to answer with a flippant wave,

“Don’t. Have you seen Hank’s file? Fool’s attendance record is as long as an epic. I’d be amazed if he wasn’t late to his own funeral.”

“Oh fuck off, Fowler. If you wanna kill me so bad, how ‘bout you buy me a round?”

“Done. Tito’s and soda?”

“Grey Goose. Been a while since we’ve been out, eh?”

Jimmy, bar owner extraordinaire, already had the Grey Goose bottle in hand. He poured. “Gonna be longer with you leaving us hangin’, Hank. There goes about half my business right there.”

“Shucks, Jimmy. You sure do know how to sweet talk,” Hanks eyes wandered across the bar top, counting one, two, three… about ten heads, not including the strangers that’d sequestered themselves off at the end of the bar. There were no stools left. He turned to find Connor, who already started walking off into the great fucking abyss as Jimmy set his drink down atop the wooden coaster.

“Hey, Connor, where do you think you’re going? We can pull up an extra chair for you.”

The android stopped, turning to Hank as he spun slightly on his heels. His hands were in his pockets. A decidedly… human tic. “I’m going to sit at one of the booths. I’ll let you know when it’s about time to leave.”

“Come have a drink wi—” Ah, fuck. That’s right.

For as human as Connor was, he… wasn’t. Wouldn’t ever be. Hank felt his chest tighten. He ate alone, he drank alone, he slept alone. He ate alone, he drank alone, he slept alone. Loneliness was being unable to share a meal with someone you care about. Hank had learned that the hard way.  

“Well, ah, what are you gonna do in the booth the whole time? Twiddle your thumbs?”

His LED blinked yellow. “Go into stasis.”

Hank blinked. “Stasis?”

“It’s what you would consider ‘standby mode’.”

“You do that often?”

The lieutenant felt a rough shove at his shoulder and groaned. Goddamn basketball game still had him fucked up two weeks later. “Fucking hell! Watch the merchandise!”

“Well quit busting Connor’s balls, Hank. Damn. You his wife or something?” Miller retorted, nursing his Corona.

In that precise moment, Connor’s mouth formed the very syllables he’d dreaded hearing:

“Only when you talk about Ginuwine.”

And his whole world fell apart. Ginuwine, with his predilection towards hip thrusts and gratuitous moaning, was the voice of 90’s r&b. And goddammit, that shit was _personal_ information! Connor might as well have airdropped pictures of his family jewels across the table!

“What?! Quit messin’ around! I don’t even know who that is! Tell ‘em the truth!” He was already sitting down. “ _Connor!_ Connor, don’t ignore me! You little—”

And there he went, sitting down at the only empty booth left in the lounge. The soft glow of his LED blinked gently against the mahogany counter tops, residual droplets of condensation reflecting its light. Hank felt a buzz in his back pocket.

He pulled out his phone, only to witness the cheekiest text the world had ever seen.

 **Connor** : JK :)  

“…He’s got jokes.” The entire DPD hollered. Even Gary, hamburger slinger from Hank’s beloved Chicken Feed, couldn’t help but clutch at his sides as the scene unfolded before them. The rain fell softly against the glass. His cheeks were warm.

He hadn’t taken a drink yet.

 

* * *

 

 

 

“So how’d you convince him to go?”

Hank tipped his head back, savoring the burn that trickled to the back of his throat. He looked over the rim of his glass, eyes focusing and unfocusing slightly as he let out his signature groan.

His free hand rubbed the edge of the coaster.

“I didn’t. I told him we were going one day and he said okay.” 

Miller’s face scrunched up. “What? And that’s it? That’s all it took?”

“Yeah. That simple.”

Gavin, who had transcended the point of no return, lifted his forehead from the bar top to interject. He’d been making smart ass comments all night. “Android’s whipped. Bet you make him do all your dirty laundry. I’d wanna kill myself too if that was what I had to come home to every night.” He had a deep red imprint where Hank’s fist should be: directly in the center of his face.

The crew tensed.

He instinctively looked over to see if Connor overheard, still peacefully in stasis. He had the decency to turn himself towards the hockey game to not look like he was having an existential crisis in the middle of the dive bar. It was such a Connor thing to do, the considerate bastard.

His face twisted into disgust. “I dare you to say that again, Reed. Give me a reason.”

Wilson sat himself between the two, eyes darting from man to man as he extended both hands out disarmingly. Fowler raised a brow.

“That’s enough, Gavin.”

“What? He gets to ride off with his mail order wife to become a mall cop and we gotta sit here and rebuild this whole city? Talk about injustice—”

Hank stood, grabbing Gavin by the collar of his shirt. His fists balled against his skin. The others rose quickly. Jimmy looked up from his bar well.

“I told you to watch your fucking mouth, Gavin.” He brought their faces mere inches away from each other, the stench of alcohol wafting between their breaths. Three pairs of hands worked to wrench them off each other, white knuckles over pale skin. He felt his flesh bruise.

“Hank, you gotta let go of him, brother. It’s not worth it.”

Gavin’s lips pulled into a frown. His shirt yielded beneath Hank’s fingertips.

“—S’why your wife left you. Can’t get a woman to wanna fuck you. Can’t even get a _man_ to wanna fuck you, all you’ve got is that plastic toy,”

Hank’s hands went cold. He felt a boulder sit on his chest. He released the smaller man, finding his pointer finger vested deep in the other’s rib cage. He looked at Gavin and saw only himself staring back at him: a coward. 

“I am not a fucking faggot.”

His words fell before he could stop them. He repeated it again. Louder.

“ _I am not a fucking faggot_.”

Hank hadn’t spoken those words since the last time he went to church. He had held her engagement ring in one hand and his own in the other. He felt a new life beneath his palms, the small wiggles of a tiny soul greeting the world with triumph. He felt tears threaten the corners of his eyes. His chest was tight. He squeezed the rings until he bruised.

He was not a faggot.  He wasn’t one then, and he wasn’t one now.

\--A familiar hand found itself atop his shoulder. He shoved it off.

“Hank, it’s me.” A beat.

  
“Connor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...the android sent by Cyberlife.


	3. The Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank attempts to communicate. He doesn't die in the process.

His head was throbbing. It was the same, pulsing pain he’d grown accustomed to over the years, its iron hot edges threatening to cut right through him. The lights overhead felt more like heat lamps. Perspiration formed on the bridge of his nose. Hank felt like a stale hunk of meatloaf drying up under a chef’s knife. It was a familiar place, sure, but not a comfortable one. It was kind of like when a heathen landed in his particular circle of hell: 

The first circle was reserved for folks who didn’t know who God was. Hank knew, he just didn’t care. They weren’t on speaking terms. Hard to give the guy a ring when he liked to forward his calls to voicemail. 

Lust and gluttony, however, depended on the day. Hank kept his internet search history to himself. Kept his hands wrapped around the neck of a bottle or one of Gary’s burgers. When his eyes would wander, it’d wander to the nearest breathing thing—

Or not breathing thing. Shit, these days he had trouble keeping his eyes off Connor’s goddamn neck bones. Clavicles? Were they called clavicles? Hell if he knew. He’d catch himself, take a cold shower, and refer back to the sticky note he now kept folded up in his wallet: _And don’t fuck it up_.

Greed was taking the android revolutions’ new hope and turning him into a house wife.

Violence was getting into a bar brawl on his last day in Detroit.

It was decided, then. Hank Anderson would live in that awkward lava between the fourth and fifth circles. Maybe he’d set up a tent and meet Argenti. Float around on the River Styx with a fuckin’ centaur. He’d never gotten to go on a beach vacation before the oceans turned over in pollution.

Fowler broke the silence between them. 

“—You gonna be alright, Anderson?” He asked, occupying his left as Wilson sat quietly on his right. Gavin had been escorted out moments earlier, Miller and Gary resorting to damage control. He vaguely remembered the young detective muttering an apology. Hank hadn’t responded. Figured he was starting to hear shit.

He wiped the sweat from his face.

“Not sure if I’m making the right decision, Jeff.” The words sank straight to his stomach. He fought the nausea, hands flexing experimentally against a bev nap. “I haven’t been sure since I put in my notice.” His boxes were shipped. His house was empty. Connor awaited him in the car with Sumo. 

He’d barked orders at him, the acid sting of alcohol burning his lips. For once, the android listened.

For once, Hank wished he hadn’t.

“So it’s like that?”

“Like what?” Wilson shifted uncomfortably, taking a drink from a beer bottle he sucked dry an hour ago.

“Don’t play dumb, Anderson. I saw the way you look at him.”

“Like I’m an asshole for snapping? ‘Cause yeah, that was fucked up.”

Fowler called Jimmy over for a glass of water. He slid it towards Hank.

“If you’re not sure, Hank, why don’t you ask him yourself? You know you’ve always got a place here with us. You can stay.”

“Well, what if I don’t wanna give him an option, Jeff? We all saw what he did the moment he had a fucking choice.” Hank gritted through his teeth. “It was all over the news, and he acts like it never happened. Doesn’t talk about it, just shoots the shit with me at home, yells at me for putting too much cheese in my panini. Every time he takes Sumo out for a walk, I’m scared I’m gonna get a knock on my door saying my dog was found down the street and he’s nowhere to be seen. Do you know what that’s like, Fowler?”

_Do you know what it’s like to fucking lose someone?_

“You know I do.”

Wilson called for a shot. The patrons started sifting out of the bar. The anti-android propaganda was slowly coming off the walls. The clientele had decreased since then.

“He can make his own decisions. If he agreed to go with you, it’s probably because he wanted to.” Wilson interjected, the most he’d spoken the entire night. Hank wasn’t sure why he was still here. 

“Oh yeah? And who died and made you the android expert all of a sudden? Last I remembered, you were just as bad as Reed.” He took a sip of his water. He wondered if he’d miss Detroit’s finest tap.

Wilson cleared his throat. “Do you remember Daniel? The PL600 deviant from the Phillips’ case?”

Hank shrugged. “Yeah, what about him?”

“He shot and almost killed me. If it weren’t for your andro—” He stopped himself. “ _Connor_ , I could have died that night.” His thumb massaged the ridges of his shot glass. Licking his lips, he continued, “Daniel had a gun pointed at him and threatened to kill him if he touched me, and you know what he said?”

“He said, ‘you can’t kill me, I’m not alive’.”

Hank and Fowler said nothing. The hockey game was over. 

“I swallowed my pride later, you know. Went over to thank him the week after. He told me he didn’t remember who I was. Told me when his memory was transferred, some details didn’t make it. I thought he was weird as fuck, kinda decided to let it go but—after working with him and seeing how he is with you, Hank. I learned something.”

“I think he’d do it again. I _know_ he’d do it again, even if he can’t remember.” Wilson cleared his throat, finally taking a swig of his drink as their tones filled the entirety of the bar. Jimmy had begun flipping chairs. There was an underlying smell of bleach and sanitizer staining every wet surface. Hank’s head buzzed. This was home.

“And that’s not programming. That’s a choice. A good one, if I might say so myself.”

Fowler stood from his bar stool, taking one final swig of his own poison. He clapped Hank on the shoulder.

“Talk to him, Anderson.”

* * *

 

He didn’t try to explain himself. He’d stumbled into the car—newly rented, with the smell of Pinesol and vinyl all over the covers—plopping himself down into the passenger seat as he extended a hand back to pet Sumo. A soft lick tickled his fingertips. He was pretty sure they tasted foul. Nothing but Grey Goose and rocks salt. See, that was the great thing about dogs. They loved you no matter how big of a piece of shit you were, or how often you drank yourself into oblivion. He couldn’t say the same of humans. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if he could say the same for androids. Not after the Ortiz case.

He was reminded of Connor’s body. The first one, the one that fell like a rag doll the moment the bullet went through his head. He’d never seen so much blue blood in person before. He was… bludgeoned. 

Hank shuddered.

The engine hummed. Connor put on Bowie. Unexpected. “Is this song okay?”

Hank almost smiled. “Phenomenal, actually. You been doing research?”

“Yes.” He admitted, matter-of-fact. “Sumo likes him too.”

“Well, yeah, I figured. We’re practically the same person.” 

Connor put the car in reverse, backing out of the parking space he’d made a home of for the last thirty minutes. What time was it now? 9:30? 10:00? Hank lost track. He was never one to fear the hands of time—that was more Connor’s shtick.

Speaking of Connor’s shtick, his LED went yellow again.

“What could you _possibly_ be thinking this hard about?”

“The comparisons between you and Sumo. I see it now.”

Hank snorted. “Oh yeah?”

Connor nodded as he shifted the car into drive. The rain poured over the windshield. He steadied his grip on the wheel, “You both like to overeat and oversleep. Usually in that order.”

Hank, still caught in his booze-induced haze, took a moment to process what he just said. When he finally came to, he endured the stages of grief at miraculous speed.

Shock. “—Hey!”

Denial. “That’s not true.”

Anger. “Fuck off, Connor.”

Bargaining. “At least I pay rent. Sumo doesn’t even have a job!”

Depression. “…”

And finally, acceptance.

“…Yeah. You got a point.”

Hank turned his attention to Connor’s profile. Through the dimness of the streetlights, its glow fading in and out with their distance, he could make out the slightest smile playing at his lips. His freckles danced happily along his cheek bones. 

Jesus Christ, his jaw line could cut diamonds. _Literally,_ it probably could. Or it could grate cheese. Hank decided he’d put that theory to the test when they made it to Canada.

If they made it to Canada.

“What’s that in your lap?”

Hank had forgotten he brought it in with him. A little present from Wilson, wrapped neatly in a blue bow. Sentimental fuck didn’t have the balls to give it to Connor himself.

“I’ll show you when we get to the terminal,” Hank sighed. His muscles tensed. “You still want to go, right?”

“To the terminal? Yes, that’s where we’re headed right now.”

He shook his head. Maybe a little too fast, he could feel the devil and God rage inside him (that was a polite way of saying he thought he might yak all over the nice seat covers). They hit a speed bump.

“I meant to Canada.” He could feel his asshole clench. It was unsightly.

He clenched even harder when Connor didn’t answer. 

“Connor?”

“Do you want me to?”

Hank swore he was going to give himself a hernia with the way he snapped his body around. There it was, his inner circle of hell: violence.

“God dammit, it’s not about what I want or don’t want! What do _you_ want, Connor?” Sumo whined in the backseat. “I just wanna know if this is really something you wanna do. You’re leaving behind your whole life here and for what? ‘Cause I’m having a midlife crisis and don’t wanna die in the same house I grew up in? Shit just doesn’t make sense for you.”

His LED flashed red. It flickered from red to blue back to yellow again until finally, he let out a breath.

“Because I have a good feeling about this.”

Hank’s mouth hung slack. He stared at the android incredulously. 

“Because you have a good _feeling_ about this?”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

“Connor, that’s just about the worst reasoning I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s logical.” And there it was, that matter-of-fact tone of his again. Hank would be damned if he could go a full day without having to listen to that shit at least once.

“And how’s that?”

“Because before I met you, I didn’t feel at all.”

Hank didn’t say a damn word for the rest of the ride. Not until the very moment they pulled into the terminal, the sounds of Bowie fading as Connor cut the engine. He was sweating.

“…Okay.” He said, more to himself than to Connor. He looked off into the terminal, its neon signs greeting them with warmth. Assuredness. He grabbed the gift in his lap and handed it off to Connor.

“Open it.”

Connor nodded, tugging at the bow carefully. He pulled until it revealed the item waiting inside. 

A tie with dog print. They were scampering along the pattern with their tongues out.

He’d never seen Connor smile so big. 

“It’s from Wilson. He said it would make you guys square—for the tourniquet you don’t remember making.” Hank reached out, hands gripping at the tie around Connor’s neck until it came unfurled between his fingertips.

“Mind if I do the honors?”

Connor nodded. 

The dog print looked good on him.

“It suits you.” Hank grinned. “To new beginnings.”

“I’ll have to save that to your file—” And before Hank had a chance to ask, “The fact that you’re sentimental.”

“It’s the alcohol, Connor.”

He said the same thing when he fell asleep on the bus, his head leaned against the android’s shoulder as Sumo rested beside their feet. He felt warm again.

It was definitely the alcohol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand let the Canadian fluff begin!


End file.
